


The Glass Half Full

by Garonne



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 05:02:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garonne/pseuds/Garonne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Nothing but unspoken words and unspent passions, declarations never made and caresses never given.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Holmes and Mary Watson have an after-dinner conversation about Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Glass Half Full

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fleetwood_mouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleetwood_mouse/gifts).



> Many thanks to Mr Garonne for beta-reading.
> 
> Holmes/Watson (unresolved), Mary/Watson

.. .. ..

I surprised myself by becoming a regular visitor to Watson's marital home. In the strained, falsely jovial atmosphere of Baker Street just before his marriage, I had been convinced I would rarely be able to bring myself to set foot there. I soon discovered, however, that seeing Watson in wedded bliss was less painful than not seeing Watson at all.

If those visits were a source of pain to me, it could certainly not be blamed on either of my hosts. Mrs Watson -- so I always forced myself to refer to her, even in the privacy of my own mind -- was most welcoming, and always seemed delighted to see me. As often as not, it was she who offered the next invitation as I took my leave, and not Watson. 

It took me some time to understand quite how noble of her that welcoming attitude was. In her position -- her position as I came to understand it -- I do not believe I could have behaved the same way. This all became particularly clear to me one day in early December, six months after the wedding.

I had dined with the Watsons, following which we adjourned to their sitting room for an after-dinner drink. It was Mrs Watson's habit to sit with her husband and me for half an hour or so, before retiring and leaving us to smoke and talk and, if I am honest, pretend just for a short while that we were back in Baker Street together. We never explicitly said as much, of course. I was not sure if Watson even really acknowledged the fantasy to himself, though his subconscious mind was surely aware of it.

Mrs Watson had taken her usual chair by the fire. Watson was pouring the drinks: sherry for his wife and brandy for the two of us. At the same time, he was continuing the conversation we'd had over dinner, which had mostly consisted of a monologue on Watson's part about how impressive I had been during our latest case. I was standing by the bookcase, examining the coloured plates in one of Watson's latest purchases, an illustrated guide to British wildlife.

"You really should have seen the inspector's face, Mary," Watson was saying with enthusiasm. "Holmes, of course, was magnificent. He swept away Carlson's objections with a handful of well-chosen words -- Here you go, my dear."

I heard Mrs Watson's murmured thanks as she took her drink.

"I am thinking of calling it 'The Adventure of the Unclaimed Inheritance'," Watson added.

I felt a hand on my elbow, and turned to take the glass Watson held out to me. It was an innocent gesture, though perhaps his hand lingered on my elbow longer than might usually be the case between friends. So accustomed was I to that, however, that I hardly registered the fact -- until I looked up and met Mrs Watson's eyes.

The expression I saw in her face could have had any one of a number of sources, and yet I was quite sure I knew precisely what had caused the small, pained twist to her lip, and the shadow in those soft blue eyes. She knew her husband's heart belonged to me.

I stood frozen for a moment, my gaze fixed on her. Her lips quirked into a small gesture of acknowledgement that could not be labelled a smile, and then she looked down into the drink in her lap. 

"What do you think, Holmes?" Watson asked, and I almost gave a start of surprise. With difficulty, I realised he was asking for my opinion of his frankly pedestrian story title.

"Perhaps not one of your better efforts," I said. 

I crossed the room and took the seat next to that which Watson now occupied. He grinned at me ruefully, and leaned across to give me a gentle poke in the shoulder.

"You never like any of them, do you, old fellow? And yet perhaps on this occasion you're quite right." He sat there for a minute, frowning. "How about something referencing the source of Mr Chesterfield's inheritance? _Diamond trader_ has quite a dashing feel to it, don't you think?"

He fell silent again, musing over this weighty problem.

Mrs Watson turned to me with a smile, as though our exchange of glances a moment ago had never happened.

"Is it true, Mr Holmes?" she asked. "All that from a tiny scratch mark on the garden door?"

I gathered my thoughts, and managed to summon an intelligent response.

Our evening went on as normal after that. Watson upheld the lion's share of the conversation, while I covertly observed Mrs Watson.

Over the past year, I had watched her slowly come to realise both the nature of her husband's feelings and their specific manifestation and direction. Mary Watson was an intelligent woman, after all, and an observant one.

I wondered exactly how much she knew. Neither Watson nor I ever flaunted our sentiments in front of her, on the contrary. Indeed there was nothing to flaunt. Nothing but unspoken words and unspent passions, declarations never made and caresses never given.

Intimacy such as we did permit ourselves was easy to deduce. A cigarette offered and accepted without a word, an exhaustive knowledge of the other's taste in drink or music, one arm slipped casually through the other's on an afternoon stroll -- anyone with half an eye and a little intelligence could read the signs of a long and comfortable friendship.

That, of course, was not a secret in and of itself. A man may have a close friendship with another and break neither his marriage vows nor the law.

The secret was in what we suppressed: what we hid from the world and tried to hide even from each other.

I knew that Watson not only loved me but desired me. I knew it from his eyes when they caught a glimpse of my bare skin; from the hand on my arm, snatched away just before it could become too much; from the head turned resolutely away while we changed at the Turkish baths.

As for what Watson knew of my own feelings: it had been many years now since I first read understanding and regret in his eyes.

How much did Mrs Watson know, however?

Now, she was nodding and smiling as Watson spoke, addressing her occasional remarks to me as much as to Watson. Not for the first time, but now more than ever, I wondered how she could bear to have me around. Had I been in her position, I should have clung jealously to Watson, driving all others away. Perhaps Mary Watson was made of better stuff than I.

"Have you already made plans for Christmas Day, Mr Holmes?" she asked. "I do hope you will be able to spend it here with us."

Watson beamed at this. His face expectant, he turned to me.

Insofar as I had given the matter any consideration at all, I had intended to spend Christmas like most other days of the year -- alone, and occupied with my work. The criminal mind does not seem to view the holiday as an occasion for rest, after all. To the end of this thought, I am ashamed to say, my mind tacked on the words _thank goodness._

I could not deny, however, that my heart longed to spend the day with Watson even while my brain formed plans for updating my archives or finishing that series of experiments on the flammability of petroleum distillates. 

"I'd be delighted," I said, and Watson's smile broadened.

"Capital," he cried. "I am glad to hear it, old man."

This cued a discussion between the Watsons as to whether ham or goose would be preferable for Christmas dinner. Once the question had been settled to their satisfaction, and Watson had finished his drink, he rose to his feet and excused himself before stepping from the room.

I should not have been surprised had Mrs Watson tried to fill the silence with animated chatter after his departure. In fact she only smiled at me, and took another sip of her drink.

On previous occasions, we had managed to make conversation, she and I. Now, however, I felt exceedingly uncomfortable.

I cleared my throat.

"It was kind of you to extend me an invitation for Christmas, and indeed to invite me here so often."

I had meant it as the most inane, socially vapid of remarks, but Mrs Watson did not smile graciously and thank me, as she should have. Instead, she sat looking down into her lap.

"I feel I owe you a great deal, Mr Holmes, and can never repay you," she said quietly. She raised her head to meet my gaze. "I took something very dear to you."

I had been in the process of setting my glass down on the table when she spoke. I continued the gesture smoothly, not betraying how startled I was. That done, I looked up at her once more. I swallowed the words that rose to my lips. _I beg your pardon... I'm sure I don't know what you mean..._

"What makes you say that, Mrs Watson?" I said carefully instead.

"I don't know you very well, I admit," she said. "I only know John. The rest is merely a guess. A deduction, if you like."

She was looking at me with a certain wariness, uncertain how I would react.

It would have been quite easy to pretend to misunderstand her, to act as though she were referring to the loss of my breakfast and dinner companion, a steady source of rent, and a stalwart assistant in my work. Easy, but certainly pointless.

"You don't owe me anything, Mrs Watson," I said.

She was still studying me anxiously. I was quite sure my face betrayed very little of the turmoil inside me.

"I fear I have offended you, Mr Holmes."

It would only be natural, surely, to feel offended at the suggestion that one broke laws both spiritual and civil, in thought if not in deed. I was not, however, offended.

"You haven't," I said curtly.

I felt the sudden need for a pipe or a cigarette, for something in my hands, something to allow me to appear to be busy while I gathered my thoughts. I picked up my glass again.

"I didn't expect ever to be having this conversation, that's all." 

"You know, Mr Holmes, I -- I've wanted to for quite some time."

Her face was earnest, guileless, but not innocent. I felt quite off balance beside her.

"Indeed?" I said, meaning: _And what held you back?_

I was certainly not making any effort to put her at her ease, but she was made of sterner stuff than one might have supposed.

"You're an intimidating man, Mr Holmes. And a man with very good reason to hate me."

I raised an eyebrow at her. I was being intimidating at this precise moment, I supposed. It was preferable to betraying how profoundly uncomfortable I felt.

"I assure you, I don't."

She was playing with the fringe of her shawl. It seemed the compulsion to fidget when under pressure was universal.

"You know, I had rather expected never to see you here at all. I am glad for John's sake that you do come."

How could I stay away? I could not say that aloud, of course. Instead, I shrugged.

"Perhaps it would be better had I in fact stayed away entirely."

To my surprise, her expression hardened.

"Better for whom, Mr Holmes?"

For all of us, I had meant. Better for all concerned. She didn't seem to take it that way, however. When I didn't reply immediately she went on, a sharp note creeping into her voice.

"I sincerely hope you don't pity me, Mr Holmes. I suppose you think me foolish. I wasn't entirely naive when I married, you know, though I was optimistic. I wasn't _blind_. I thought that all he needed was a woman's love -- that he'd soon see he'd been mistaken." 

Over the course of these words, the anger in her voice had transformed slowly into a despondency that felt very familiar to me. She stopped suddenly.

There was a long, deeply awkward pause.

Mrs Watson had flushed a deep scarlet colour, but when she finally spoke her words were brisk.

"I've said more than I intended. It's really most improper of me to speak to you like this, I know."

It was horribly improper of her, of course, though until this moment, that aspect of the conversation had not yet occurred to me at all. I suppressed the automatic reflex to murmur _Not at all_.

Mrs Watson gave me a sudden, unexpected smile.

"But you're the only person I _can_ speak to, you know, Mr Holmes."

I could not help but answer with a dry smile of my own.

"A peculiar situation we find ourselves in, do we not?"

She grinned at that. Quite suddenly and unexpectedly, I found the tension in the room had dissipated. Indeed, there was almost a strange sense of fellow feeling between us.

I did not pity her, of course. All my pity was reserved for myself. I did feel guilty, however. No one had ever accused me of being an entirely selfless man, but if I could have spared Mrs Mary Watson just a small part of the pain she suffered, I would have done anything -- anything short of hurting Watson himself. 

"I tried very hard to dissuade Watson from marrying," I said, prompted to a peculiarly confessional mood by this sense of complicity between us. "I hope you'll believe me when I say I wasn't thinking only of myself."

She leant forward, earnest again.

"Yet I wouldn't have had it any other way. I could not ask for a better husband in John. And we're not unhappy, you know, Mr Holmes."

"I know that," I said softly.

I knew Watson had managed to construct for himself a modicum of happiness. I was willing to believe Mary Watson had done the same. I sat in silence, remembering Watson's hesitant expression when he told me he would marry; his shyness and delight in presenting Mary to me; the gentle affection in his voice whenever he spoke of her. He married with the best of intentions; I knew it. Nevertheless, I believed marrying Mary Morstan was the only cruel thing he'd ever done. 

I finished my drink, and Mrs Watson did the same.

"Yet what a wretched state of affairs, all the same," I said after a moment, almost to myself.

Mrs Watson shook her head.

"I prefer to think we each have a little portion of what we want, Mr Holmes," she said quietly.

Before I could answer, Watson came back into the room. His gaze fell on our empty glasses.

"Another drink, my dear Holmes?" he cried. "And you too, dear? Or do you leave us already?"

"I'll stay a little while longer," she said, smiling at him, and then at me.

We sat there together, the three of us, and spoke of this and that until late into the evening.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] The Glass Half Full](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8942278) by [sanguinity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguinity/pseuds/sanguinity)




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